


Beautiful Children

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, Angst, F/F, F/M, Summer Romance, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest as he neared the window, and he vaguely wondered what this organ knew that it didn’t share with his brain, what secret intuition gave it fear and eagerness, while his mind waited in blissful ignorance, not even aware enough to guard itself...-----Adlock Teenlock AU, set in the French Riviera during the summer that changed Sherlock Holmes's life.





	1. The Meeting, Part 1: First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitting under the midday sun in the south of France, Sherlock Holmes observes a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested soundtrack for this chapter (Just because sometimes I love to have music while writing, and it really sets the mood):   
> "Carlos Primero" by OPEZ - I love playing this, especially when Irene first appears  
> "France" by Marc Streitenfeld (from the soundtrack of 'A Good Year')

__  


* * *

_Bored._

Dear God, he was bored out of his skull.

Not for the first time, Sherlock Holmes wondered why the south of France was such a popular tourist destination when there was nothing to do but allow oneself to bake in the sun or swim in the ocean. 

And since he had disliked the beach since his childhood days, and his own complexion was not naturally inclined to increased production of melatonin, except for the occasional freckle here or there – not to mention the fact that he found no pleasure in watching the vacuous, bikini-clad teenage girls lying aimlessly on the beach, unlike his peers who rejoiced and stared hungrily at the amount of skin exposed – Sherlock found himself utterly bored and sitting on a bench at the town square.

Why had he allowed himself to be dragged by his parents to this place for the summer?

Mycroft, the lucky bastard, had managed to evade their mother’s unrelenting persuasion, which ranged from cajoling, to encouraging guilt, to a stern ultimatum that Sherlock could never say no to.

A few more months and he would be eighteen: out of the house and out of range of the daily, well-intentioned parental manipulation.

Dear God, it seemed interminable…

Beside him, a fountain bubbled merrily – designed in 1843, according to the bronze plaque at the base, which Sherlock deemed quite unnecessary, as the date could be easily deduced by the fountain’s design – and Christ, he must really be bored if he had resorted to deducing something so mundane and unimportant.

With a small sigh, he turned to watch the passersby. Not that the people around him were any more remarkable than the redundant plaque, but he would concede that they were slightly more stimulating.

There were some tourists consulting a map beside the fountain a little to his right – American, from somewhere in the south, judging by the accent, Texas, probably, somewhere near the Panhandle. There was the florist, arranging her wares at the shop window – clearly having an affair with the baker, whose pregnant wife was currently siphoning funds from his till.

Boring. Boring! _BORING!!!_

Sherlock groaned out loud in frustration and ran his hand down his face. This must be what hell was like…

A flash of movement to his left caught his eye and he turned his head.

The screech of tires heralded the arrival of a red convertible – brand-new, recently driven to Ménerbes, had already received two speeding tickets and one parking ticket in the two months since it had been purchased.

Sherlock had seen the boy at the wheel around the club several times, Stavros something – oil tycoon’s son, narcissistic underachiever spoiled by his mother, with at best an average IQ, full name too unimportant for him to remember. There was no need to deduce the make and model of the car, Stephanos (or whatever his name was) needed no prompting to announce it, along with its value, to anyone who would listen.

The girl sitting in the passenger seat, however, was a stranger. She had her back to him, but based on her build, Sherlock guessed she was around his age, probably a year or so younger.

She was paler than most of the tanned teenage girls parading in the streets, though there was a light scattering of freckles over her bare arms – which, combined with the fact that he didn’t recognize her, told him that she was a new arrival.

He cocked his head, watching with a mild increase in interest as the unknown girl reached over, one hand on the narcissistic Greek’s lap and the other curling around the back of his neck. As Sherlock watched, the girl brought the other boy’s face closer and kissed him, slowly, languorously… all while her nimble fingers pulled his billfold from his pocket.

When the girl pulled away, the Greek boy’s mouth hung open, his dull eyes glassy. The girl laughed, a throaty delighted sound, and slid out of the passenger seat, leaving Santos-whatshisname slack-jawed behind her.

Both he and Sherlock watched her walk away without looking back, the stolen wallet now securely hidden in her tiny zippered purse.

The convertible pulled off – rather hesitantly, Sherlock thought – and the girl walked over to the low wall a few feet away from the fountain. 

Her pace was casual, unhurried, and she showed no signs of nervousness or tension that accompanied criminal activity. No signs of the gratification or relief that followed kleptomania either. If Sherlock hadn’t seen her nick that billfold, he wouldn’t have known it from her behaviour.

He sat up a little straighter on his seat and watched the girl with considerably more interest. He had to admit, she was more stimulating than the tourists or the adulterous baker.

The girl stopped at the wall and hoisted herself up so that she was sitting on top of it. The wall was low enough that her dangling feet still skimmed the ground. She was tiny – around 5′3″ to his full six feet – but the short white sundress she wore made her slender legs seem longer as she stretched them out over the wall, giving the illusion that she was taller than her actual height.

She turned slightly and he finally got a full view of her face. She was younger than he had earlier deduced, probably closer to sixteen than seventeen. He supposed her face was aesthetically pleasing – beautiful, even. But beauty was a social construct, and he liked to think he was above such matters. 

She had an aristocratic face with sharp bone structure, but her youth gave her face a certain softness that made it look almost delicate. She wore little makeup, unlike most of the girls her age in town. 

But what caught Sherlock was her eyes… An unusual shade that shifted between grey, green and blue along with the sunlight, their gaze was somnolent and heavy-lidded in the midday sun, but the more he looked, the more he saw that there was an intelligence there, an awareness that was lacking in the vacant eyes of the mundane people around him.

He didn’t recognize the exact minute that awareness was turned on him, but he realized that she had noticed him noticing her when one corner of her lips lifted into a small smile, and she flipped her long, dark hair behind her shoulder.

He knew she was preening, in the way most teenage girls do when trying to attract boys his age, but with this girl, there was a certain masterful subtlety, a languid confidence that replaced the usual teenage girl’s eagerness for attention. It wasn’t so much preening as it was accepting attention and interest as her due.

And she was waiting for something, or someone…

That much he was able to glean from her behaviour. She checked the expensive watch on her wrist (this one not stolen, judging by the fit and the light discoloration on her skin under it) every so often, and she would glance up the street, occasionally tapping a finger over her knee. 

There seemed to be no urgency to her waiting, as if she had all the time in the world. Nevertheless, he suspected that she was not one used to waiting patiently on anyone.

His suspicions were confirmed when a young woman appeared across the street, waving in the girl’s direction. This one had curly light-blond hair and wide brown eyes. Sherlock gave her a cursory examination and found little that could be considered remarkable about the new arrival – early twenties, maybe twenty-one, pet parakeet, art student based on the small smudge of oil paint on the back of her left forearm, had some potential, but lacked the confidence to let any real talent emerge. 

The blond young woman hurried in their direction, eyes flicking left and right, and her suspicious behaviour further piqued Sherlock’s interest.

The Girl that Sherlock had been observing lifted her head and acknowledged the woman’s appearance with an slow, almost…  _indulgent_ smile. She watched the woman approach her like a queen graciously receiving a subject. 

Despite the difference in their age, all the eagerness that had been absent in the Girl seemed present in this newcomer. The woman’s steps became quicker the closer she got to the Girl sitting on the wall, and an excited smile appeared on her face. She had a nervous energy that seemed to vibrate as she got closer, and the Girl took her hand.

The Girl unfolded her legs and slid gracefully off the wall. With that same almost patronizing smile, she pulled the older woman closer to her. As Sherlock watched, the Girl kissed the older woman on the lips, gently at first, then with more force and eagerness than she had the Greek boy earlier. 

If the first kiss had been about distraction, this was about control.

Despite himself, Sherlock was impressed at the distinction. Growing up in the social circles his family associated with, he’d seen his more than his fair share of manipulative people. Liars, cheaters, codependents, sociopaths, psychopaths, you name it. And he knew a pro when he saw one.

Curiosity piqued, he kept his stare trained on the kissing couple by the wall. The Girl pulled away with a smile that promised trouble, and took the older woman’s hand. 

The Girl gave no indication that she knew Sherlock was still watching, didn’t even turn in his direction. But just before she led the blond woman down the street, he saw the Greek boy’s billfold drop unnoticed onto the pavement.

A grin began to form on Sherlock’s face.

That was no accident.

There was no way that billfold could have fallen out of her purse. It was too small, and it had a zipper top. The only way it could have fallen out was if it had been dropped on purpose.  _And_ he was the only one who even knew she had it.

The grin stretched across his face.

Well, at least he wasn’t bored anymore.

Sherlock got up from his seat and walked casually to the wall where the Girl had been sitting. He picked up the billfold and gave it a cursory examination : multiple cards, a driver’s license (huh, so the Greek boy’s name was Spiro) nothing unexpected or remarkable.

He cast a quick, surreptitious glance around the town square. Nothing else was amiss. The oblivious people around him had no idea what had just happened.

With a shake of his head and the grin firmly in place, he set off down the street to follow the Girl.


	2. The Meeting, Part 2: The Voyeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No illustration in any book could be equated to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My soundtrack for this chapter:  
> "Playground Love" by Air  
> "Everybody Here Wants You" by Jeff Buckley  
> also for no apparent reason "Magic Man" by Heart

The cloying fragrance of hundreds of flowers filled his nostrils as Sherlock walked through the paved streets of the local market, and he bit back a curse.

How was he to isolate the scent of the Girl’s perfume amid the riotous aromatic array of practically every breed of flower in the Côte d'Azur – roses, lilies, dahlias, peonies, and those were just the ones he could detect – that threatened to overwhelm his olfactory organs?

He had been following the Girl and her companion for a good ten minutes, and though he had kept a cautious distance, he had maintained his sights on both females without difficulty.

That was until the Girl had led him and her companion through the marketplace, slipping with remarkable ease into the sea of tourists, vendors and locals. Five seconds later, a smiling, matronly woman was enthusiastically waving a _socca_ in his face, trying to tempt him into buying one, and he lost them entirely.

If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would have sworn the Girl had done it on purpose to shake him off.

He took a calming breath and sifted through the cacophony of sights, sounds and smells invading his senses, running them through the sieve of his mind. 

The salvo of vendors exalting their wares to overeager tourists… the explosion of bright colors as he walked by the stands displaying an eclectic arrangement of hand-crafted jewelry, old books and paintings… the strange, exotic smell that was a delicious mixture of fruits, spices, flowers and sea air.

He filtered each piece of sensory information and reduced it to a less stimulating degree. In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the layout of the town square. He’d only been here a couple of days, and he wasn’t familiar with it as he was London, but it wasn’t that difficult to map out the streets and mentally navigate them.

The suspicion that the Girl had been actively trying to lose him – despite leaving him that Greek boy’s billfold as a bread crumb to follow – strengthened as he turned over the model of the town square he had built in his mind.

The market was, by far, the busiest area of the town, hence, the best place to lose a pursuer. They would not stay here: too busy, too many people. Beyond it was the road leading to the city, the more urban part of the region. Given that the Girl’s companion was a student, he suspected this was where she had come from, which made it less likely to be the Girl’s destination.

The market was flanked on the other side by a residential area – quaint houses and little old apartments that gradually thinned out over a few miles to make way for the exclusive club, as well as the private villas on the more secluded part of the beach, like the one his mother’s friend owned where they had been staying since their arrival.

He briefly entertained the idea that the Girl had headed in the direction of the villas. It was within walking distance, and she certainly would not be out of place there. Her haughty demeanor certainly had “rich girl” written all over it. Her style of dress had been simple, understated, but clearly expensive.

And yet, she had stolen the Greek boy’s wallet.

Which confused Sherlock because she didn’t have the usual signs and reactions of a kleptomaniac, nor did she behave like a juvenile delinquent. And she certainly didn’t look as if she needed it. So, why steal it?

He filed the question away for later, and focused on the issue at hand: finding the Girl. Which was easier said than done.

While the Girl would certainly not look out of place in the club or at one of the villas, her art student companion would be. He swept the idea aside, which only left the residential area between the club and the marketplace.

Not a bad place to start.

He headed toward the residential district, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any sign of the Girl or the other woman. As he walked, he eliminated which streets she would have avoided. He dismissed the busy ones closest to the market and the beach. Not the ones near tourist areas. Not the ones where large families congregated. Not the ones with flashy outdoor decor, or anything that would attract too much attention.

Eight minutes, he walked down a narrow street and groaned in frustration as he was met by a dead end.

Nothing but a solid brick wall, a small pile of trash in one corner, flanked by two buildings – old apartments that were usually rented out to tourists who wanted to avoid the bustle of the town square.

He was about to turn around and try another street when he heard a sound.

It was so soft, he thought he had imagined it. 

A whisper of a voice issuing from a nearby window, beyond his line of sight, and despite never having heard her speak, he had no doubt it was the Girl. 

He smiled smugly. He’d found her.

She did not speak any words. Just a soft, wordless sigh that was only just loud enough for Sherlock to hear under the window. It had no vocabulary but held a language of its own – indecipherable to him, but fluent in its heavy, rolling inflections and fluttering gasps.

Curiosity piqued, he approached the window.

He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest as he neared it, and he vaguely wondered what this organ knew but didn’t share with his brain, what secret intuition gave it fear and eagerness and quickened its beat, while his mind waited in blissful ignorance, not even aware enough to guard itself. 

The window had been left ajar, the old shutters unlatched and forgotten, leaving the smallest crack open. It was too high for him to see through, but that was hardly a deterrent. In a corner of the alley, he spied an overturned plastic crate that was sturdy enough to take his weight. Still careful not to make any noise, he lifted the crate, positioned it directly under the window and climbed silently on top of it.

As he peered quietly through the crack in the window, he froze at the sight that met his eyes.

Directly under him, lying on an old, wide bed – so close she would be able to hear him breathe had his breath not frozen in his throat – was the Girl. As he’d suspected, she wasn’t alone. 

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, was her companion, the art student. Her face was buried between the Girl’s legs, and Sherlock could see the woman’s tongue painting swirls around her sex, as if the Girl were the canvas upon whom – and for whom – she was painting her art.

The Girl sighed again, and Sherlock’s stare traveled from the unremarkable companion to the Girl’s face. Her eyes were closed and her lips parted. Mere inches from her, hidden by the window, he could almost feel the warmth of her breath against his own face as she exhaled shakily into the dusty air of the room. Without realizing it, he shifted closer.

Sherlock was not unfamiliar with female anatomy. Unlike his classmates, he had actually paid attention in biology class. And his interest in the sciences had led him to further study beyond the school-assigned textbooks to almost memorizing Netter and Moore. 

And it certainly wasn’t as if this were the first time he had seen a naked woman before. Having spent most of the summers of his adolescence in the French Riviera with his parents and their friends, a naked woman was not an unfamiliar sight. And while it occasionally provoked physical arousal, Sherlock was master of himself and his own biological urges, unlike most boys his age.

To him, the female form was no more remarkable than the male anatomy. He approached the study of both with a clinical understanding that rendered him impersonal and reduced his interest in either to a scientific curiosity at its reactions to various stimuli.

But no illustration in any book could be equated to this.

The Girl’s hand, which had been resting idly beside her head, moved downward, trailing from her arched neck, dipping into the delicate well where her clavicles met, tracing the slope of one trembling breast as she inhaled, thin ribcage expanding in a delighted gasp.

Under his riveted gaze, the Girl’s hand traveled lower, plunging slowly, intimately from the ridged mesa of her ribcage onto the valley of her navel, before disappearing into the older woman’s hair, pressing her down closer between her legs. 

He watched as the Girl’s hips lifted, seeking the stimulus of the woman’s tongue, the lips of her sex parted by the woman’s fingers so that they more closely resembled a strange alstroemeria – shockingly vivid and tremulously real, glistening with a secret moisture that perfumed the claustrophobic room with a strange, heady musk – rather than the textbook illustrations.

The other woman obeyed the Girl’s pressing hand and continued her ministrations with renewed vigor, her hands sliding under the Girl’s hips, cupping reverently, desperately, like one dying of thirst cupping her hands to drink from a well.

The Girl’s eyes were still closed, and as he watched, her tongue darted out quickly, appearing only long enough to wet her lips before disappearing behind her teeth as she bit down on her moist lower lip.

He didn’t know his left hand was gripping the window ledge until his hand tightened on it hard enough to hurt his own fingers. 

He shouldn’t be here… He shouldn’t be watching this…

The Girl moaned, long, low and breathless, and his brain dismissed all thought of leaving. 

Wordless and uncontrolled, it was unlike any sound he had ever heard. It seemed to uncoil from the Girl’s throat, slowly, in fluctuations – a strange, erotic arpeggio that left the Girl’s parted lips with increasing volume and heaviness as she neared her climax.

He could not have put in words the effect the sight and sound of her had on him. Nor why it did. Instead, he stood there in the back alley, crouched on top of a crate, peering into a half-closed window, every muscle tensed – watching, transfixed, as the Girl’s legs began to tremble, one hand tangled in the other woman’s hair, the other clutching the sheets, back straining in a tight, delicious arch, lips parting desperately for breath, and her eyes –

The Girl’s eyes opened, pupils dilated, and the grey-green-blue irises with their uncanny awareness focused deliberately on _him_.

And she came. In a wicked, gasping moan that shot straight to his groin and sent an electric shock down his spine.

_She knew._

Sherlock choked, a hoarse, shocked sound that sounded alien coming from him, and he bolted away from the window. In his haste and surprise, he forgot that he had been standing on the crate, and he stumbled clumsily off it, ending up in an ungraceful half-crouch on the ground.

Without waiting for any reaction from within the room, he quickly picked himself up and stumbled out of the alley. He tried to remember the layout of the area, willing his brain to call up an image of his mental map of the town, but the only image his unhelpful mind could recall was the Girl’s stare burning into his through the slit in the window.

She knew.

She had known the entire time that he was there. That… that he had been… _watching_ her.

Anger, guilt and shame churned in his stomach at the thought, along with several other emotions he couldn’t – wouldn’t – identify. Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she stop if she had known? Why… why had she even _looked_ at him like that…?

He had to get out of here.

There was no crowd here in this residential area, but there were still a few people milling around the place. His mental map wouldn’t come, and he groaned in frustration, wiping a hand down his face. He tried to calm himself down, but he knew his heart was beating too fast, his breathing too irregular.

She knew.

The sounds of her pleasure echoed in his head, and it made him shiver in the midday heat. He wondered if they had been magnified because she had known he was there and would hear it. If his presence had been the cause of it…

He could feel his cheeks burn and covered his face, as if it would somehow alert the others around him. He could see… a -a woman hanging up, what was that, laundry? a child playing on the street? He wondered if they could see and interpret the symptoms of his distress.

Foregoing the mental map, he picked a street and started to run.

Running… felt good. Better. It helped wipe his mind blank. 

No thoughts of he Girl. Or what he had just seen. Not the sight of her legs shifting restlessly on the sheets. Or the stark contrast of the other woman’s unruly hair on her pale skin. Or the way her neck had arched back just before she came, tendons straining for release…

Shaking his head vigorously, he ran. Through the paved streets, past the charming old buildings with bougainvillea spilling from their balconies, past a clutch of tourists trying to make their way back to their hotel, past a group of cyclists heading back out to the open road.

He didn’t know how far he ran, how much time had passed. All he wanted was to put as much distance between him and the Girl.

His legs were aching and his lungs were burning by the time he reached the club, but he didn’t stop. He kept running. 

By the time he reached the villa he and his parents were staying in, he was exhausted. His unruly hair was matted in sweat and his shirt was soaked in it. 

He slipped in through the garden, knowing that his mother’s friend, with her pristine designer clothes and immaculate house, would possibly have a heart attack at the sight of him, incoherent and drenched in sweat, panting on her front steps.

There was also the other… problem, which he refused to acknowledge at present.

He snuck in through the kitchen, which he knew would be empty at this time, and padded as quietly as he could to his guest bedroom on the second floor. 

Just as he reached the top step, he heard the door open and his mother and her friend came in, talking and laughing.

Panicked, he dove for the bedroom door and scrambled to lock it behind him. Christ! The last thing he needed right now was for his mother to find him soaked head to foot in sweat with an erection that had alarmingly not receded even during his running.

“Billy?”

He could hear his mother climbing up the steps, and he hurriedly peeled off his soaked shirt, attempting to mop the sweat from his tousled hair. He held his breath, hoping she would think he wasn’t there.

“Billy? Darling, I know you’re there. You haven’t left your room except for meals since we got here. What on earth are you doing in there? Are you doing another experiment–?”

The doorknob jiggled as his mother tried it. Sherlock cringed.

“I’m just – just about to get in the shower!”

Cold shower! Now that he thought about it, that wasn’t a bad idea. He yanked the bathroom door open and turned the shower knob to a degree that would be near-freezing. That should do it.

“Well, hurry up. I want you to join us for dinner tonight.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. They had only been here for a couple of days, and already he was sick to death of those “dinners” his mother insisted he attend. More often than not, it would include his parents and their vapid friends, whose idea of intellectual stimulation was a bout of gambling in nearby Monte Carlo.

He turned the shower knob to the coldest degree it could get, trying to ignore his mother while taking a deep breath to force himself, and other parts of his anatomy, to calm down.

“I know you’re rolling your eyes at me even if I can’t see you. Stop it. You won’t be the only teenager there. The Wilkeses are bringing their son, Sebastian. And Cecile said her niece, Izzie, will be joining us too.”

Sherlock groaned, momentarily distracted from his predicament. Splendid. Every time his parents wanted him to interact with people his age, it always ended badly. 

Why would this time be any different?

 

 

 

 

From my [tumblr](http://sorrowsflower.tumblr.com/):

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ended this kind of abruptly, it’s cause I have plans for the next part. And also because I just gave up on it. Ugh. Also, I know it’s weird, but there is a reason why Sherlock and Irene have those names.
> 
> Also, I post the next chapter in my tumblr, so that's 1 chapter ahead of this. If anyone's still reading this, and you wanna read what happens next just go to my page (link above), or if you can't find it, message me.
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are welcome and much-appreciated. Thank you!


	3. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea slipped in through the cracks of his mind, cunningly and insidiously, planting its seed. Stimuli and response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some OC introduction here, and this chapter is NSFW. Don’t know if anyone’s still reading this, but anyway, here we are.

Cecile de Glace-Leclercq-Rothschild –- or as she was known to the Riviera set, Madame de Glace -– started life as Cecilia Roth in Short Hills, New Jersey. 

It was an open secret that the former actress was an American girl who had moved to New York when she was nineteen. There she modeled briefly for Demarchelier, who remarked that the young Cecilia reminded him of Brigitte Bardot.

Inspired by this comparison, Cecilia Roth lightened her already-blonde hair, sharpened her high school French, said goodbye to her favourite cousin Isabel, and bought a one-way ticket to Paris. Before the plane had even touched down at de Gaulle airport, she had changed her name to Cecile de Glace and crafted a new persona to go with her new name and hairstyle.

While her acting skills in front of the camera were mediocre, her real-life charisma was undeniable and her ambition unstoppable. She managed to charm her way through several theater productions and a few small roles for Godard and Malle in the 70′s. 

Though she never achieved the same level of celebrity Bardot did, she found her place within France’s upper echelon by marrying one of its sons – a wealthy, if slightly reclusive businessman, who, by time time their marriage ended seven years later, had been all but ousted by Madame de Glace’s clever management of the business.

A divorce (in which she retained major shares of the company), a miscarriage, a second failed marriage, a slew of high-profile affairs, and twenty years later, Madame de Glace was comfortably settled in her villa by the coast, attended to by her staff and a parade of male lovers, each younger and more eager to feed her vanity than the last.

Her life, however, was not the charmed existence it appeared to be. 

It was clear from the multiple surgeries and facial injections she had undergone that the striking, glacial good looks that had inspired her name were starting to recede, and while she was still a beauty, it was easy enough to deduce that the Madame was struggling to preserve her physical appearance as it had been in her glory days. She was financially secure, but her own vanity needed nourishment, which she maintained with plastic surgery and a seemingly-endless string of lovers, the most recent one being a Spanish poet twenty-three years her junior.

Still, her sense of theatricality and grandiose tendencies remained. She invited friends for the summer – the most frequent being an old British friend from her acting days, and her husband and teenage son – and hosted stylish luncheons and carefully-planned dinner parties, like the one she was hosting tonight. 

Ever the elegant lady, Madame de Glace held sway over the villa, the grande dame in this opulent stage production played out in the French coast.

To Sherlock, it was a ridiculous farce and a tedious chore that he only barely tolerated to please his mother, whose friendship with Madame de Glace had endured despite the lady’s domineering personality occasionally clashing with his mother’s own strong-willed nature.

But as the guests began to arrive, he found his tolerance for this facade being tested as one insipid guest followed another, each air-kissing the other and laughing and exchanging pleasantries. 

He hated parties like this – the dreadful banality of the conversation, combined with the barrage of stimuli: the strong perfumes, the shrill laughter, the inane music, the brightness of the lights, his own discomfort in social situations – all of it conspired to increase his agitation, and the only way he could cope was to tune it out by reciting the periodic table in his head.

_Hydrogen, H. Non-metal. Atomic weight 1.008 u. Density 0.00008988 g/cm³. Melting point…_

He noticed, however, that wasn’t the only one who was anxious.

Madame de Glace was playing the part of gracious host perfectly, but he could see from the tightness around her eyes and the forced quality of her smile that she was silently holding back irritation. From the way she avoided actual physical contact when kissing her guests, Sherlock could tell she didn’t even like half of the people she had invited. 

Also, judging by the way she kept furtively checking the clock and the door, he could tell that there was someone she was waiting for who hadn’t arrived yet and it was pissing her off.  


His mother nudged him, breaking his concentration. She motioned toward the door, and he saw the Wilkeses, his parents’ old friends, walk through. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes were heading toward them, with their son Sebastian right behind them.

Sherlock suppressed a groan. His mother was always encouraging him to make friends his age, and she insisted that Sebastian would make an excellent companion. 

His mother was wrong. Sebastian Wilkes was an arrogant, small-minded, misogynistic prick who liked to put other people down, but didn’t have enough brains or balls to be an actual bully. Sherlock found his presence to be distasteful at best, and patently intolerable at worst.

He glared at his mother sulkily, but she glared right back with a look that made it clear he would not win this nonverbal discussion. With a deep sigh, Sherlock allowed Sebastian to approach him and reluctantly shook his proffered hand.

“Sebastian.”  


“Billy, old chap, how are you?” Sebastian pompously shook his hand with a tight grip in an imagined display of power. Sherlock barely managed not to roll his eyes. 

“Not bad for a party, eh?” Sebastian barreled on, not giving Sherlock time to respond. “Too many old people, if you ask me. But then again, I don’t care about that. I’m only here for one thing, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”  


Sebastian gave him an odd look, then laughed. “Oh, come on. You know. You gotta know – You and your parents are staying here with the old bag.”

Sherlock sighed, already bored with this conversation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sebastian looked at him incredulously. “I’m talking about  _Izzie Norton_.”

When Sherlock only looked at him blankly, Sebastian shook his head with a grin. “Oh, you’re kidding me! You don’t know who Izzie Norton is?”

Sherlock sighed inaudibly. He didn’t care in the least who this Izzie Norton was, he just wanted this conversation to end. He was about to turn away, but Sebastian had formed a leering, idotic grin on his face and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulders to keep him in place.

“Izzie, my oblivious friend, is the Madame’s infamous niece. She’s the daughter of a cousin or something. And let me tell you, the stories I’ve heard about this girl, mate…”

Whenever Sebastian started talking about women, Sherlock tended to tune his lecherous, asinine drivel out. He may be indifferent toward women in general, but Sebastian’s crude commentary on the female of the species was too much even for Sherlock to tolerate.

He returned to his mantra of the elements. Where was he? Oh yes.  _Arsenic, As. Metalloid. Atomic weight  74.921595(6) u. Density 5.73 g/cm³. Melting point −259.16 °C. Boiling point…_

Occasionally, he was interrupted by Sebastian’s loud voice. The moron was still talking. Dear God, would he never shut up? ”…Their family used to be rich, but her father gambled away all their money. Monte Carlo. Cars. Booze. Drugs. Women. You name it…. She lives with her mother now. They don’t have any money left, I heard, so they move from place to place, mostly living with rich ‘relatives’…. I saw her six months ago in Seville. Her mother was dating that tennis player then, but last I heard that was a bust and she ran off with some Italian count. That’s why Izzie’s come to stay with the Madame.”

Sherlock heard it all vaguely as background noise.  _Selenium, Se. Polyatomic non-metal. Atomic weight –_  

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the maids approached Madame de Glace and whispered in her ear. The Madame’s lips pursed into an angry line, but she quickly covered it up with a tight smile and graciously excused herself from the circle of guests surrounding her.

The Madame disappeared through the doorway, and Sherlock followed her, cutting Sebastian off mid-sentence. He didn’t go out to the front steps as the Madame did. Instead, he stayed half-hidden behind an antique grandfather clock.

He could see the Madame standing at the top step, hands on her hips. She was speaking to someone -- her immense irritation causing her French drawl to slip just the smallest bit to reveal the New Jersey accent underneath -- and he half-listened, half-read her lips as she snapped at the unseen newcomer. 

“… You’re late! You  _know_  I can’t  _stand_  lateness! And you’re not even dressed for the party! God! I sent you that Chanel dress last week, so you could wear it for tonight! And you said you liked it, so why aren’t you wearing it now?? What are my friends going to think now when they see my niece dressed like a street urchin? I’ll be a laughingstock! I swear to God, Izzie. You do this to me on purpose, I  _know_ you do!”

“How very observant of you.”  


Sherlock froze. He knew that voice! He’d heard it once today already.

It was  _her_. The Girl.

He craned his neck and it brought the newcomer to his line of sight. He was right. There she was, the Girl. 

She was wearing the same clothes she had on this afternoon: the same white sundress and the tiny zippered purse which had held the Greek boy’s wallet. Only now, that wallet was upstairs, hidden in the very back of his sock drawer.

Madame de Glace was still carrying on with her tirade. “This is so like you. I don’t know why I ever thought you would change–!”  


The Girl laughed, a delighted, mischievous sound, and Sherlock saw her rise on her toes and kiss the Madame’s cheek. “It’s good to see you too, _marraine_.”

The Madame was practically vibrating with frustration, and the Girl’s laughter only heightened her annoyance. The Girl sauntered away toward the door, still smiling, and Madame de Glace snapped after her. “Don’t you dare go in there without changing your dress, Izzie Norton! Don’t you dare–-!”

Both women stopped as they caught sight of Sherlock standing near the doorway. 

He could feel the Girl’s eyes boring into him, but he found, to his dismay, that he couldn’t quite look her in the eye. His face flushed red, both at the embarrassment of being caught eavesdropping, as well as the memory of what he had witnessed earlier today.

Madame de Glace cut herself short upon seeing him, and he could see her quickly rearranging her face into a tight, forced smile. Her voice lost its strident quality, and adopted its former cultured drawl.

“Oh, Billy, there you are!” the Madame trilled with fake cheer, as if she had been looking for Sherlock, when he was pretty sure she barely knew he existed. She stepped forward, her fingers closing over the Girl’s shoulders. “Billy, this is my niece and goddaughter, Izzie… Izzie, darling, this is Billy. He’s the son of one of my oldest friends. They’re staying with me here for the summer.”  


With enormous effort, Sherlock forced himself to look the Girl in the eye. It was a mistake. He could see from the evil little smile on her face that she recognized him. Just as she had recognized him through that crack in the window.

The Girl held her hand out to him, her blue eyes gleaming in feral amusement. Without a single stutter or hint that anything was amiss, she shook his hand, but Sherlock could feel her index finger linger over his palm as she let go, her nail dragging lightly across his skin.

“It’s a  _pleasure_  to meet you.”  


He heard her voice lower just the slightest bit at the word ‘pleasure’, and that teasing smile grew. He was pretty sure she was thinking of the events of this afternoon. Now he was starting to understand why her aunt was so infuriated with her. He opened his mouth to reply.

“Li–” His voice came out hoarse and choked, and he had to clear his throat. Damn it. His second try was better. “Likewise.”  


“Izzie will be spending the rest of the summer here too. Won’t it be nice to have someone your age to spend time with?” Madame de Glace remarked as she began to usher them down the hallway away from the rest of the party. “Why don’t you two run along and get to know each other a little better?”  


As she herded them down the hall, Sherlock heard her mutter in the Girl’s ear. “And don’t let anyone see you in those clothes. You may join the party when you’ve changed. Go!”

The Girl rolled her eyes before turning to Sherlock with an appraising look. He clasped his hands behind his back, trying to think of something clever to say, and hoping to God she wouldn’t bring up what he’d seen this afternoon.

Before he could open his mouth, she took his hand and led him down the hallway. “Come with me.”

She tugged on his hand and led him around the house, past the windows where he could see into the ballroom filled with people. He could hear them laughing and talking, and the noise grated on his ears. 

Thankfully, the Girl led him past the bay windows, and onto the portico at the back of the house that faced the ocean. They could still see and hear the party through the French doors, but the noise was muted, and the two of them were concealed from the revelers’ view by the darkness.

She let go of his hand and leaned against one of the columns on the edge of the veranda, surveying him intently. He felt a certain discomfort at being so observed, and this was enhanced by his apprehension that she would mention the events of today, and call him out on his voyeuristic behavior. 

Unsure of what to say or do, he remained silent under her gaze, clasped his hands behind his back once again, and looked out at the dark ocean. 

And yet, she surprised him again. Instead of bringing up the dreaded subject, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “Is your name really Billy?”

The question surprised him enough to glance at her. “Everyone calls me Billy.”  


“Aha, ‘everyone’ calls you ‘Billy’.” She raised an inquisitive brow. "Except yourself. Because if you did, you would just say yes.”

He didn’t answer.

“Good. I would have been disappointed if you were really a Billy.” She curled her lip in disgust. “Tell me, what’s your real name? The one you call yourself?”

He paused for a long moment, observing her observing him.

“Sherlock.”  


“Sherlock.” she repeated, letting the syllables roll off her tongue. Very few people outside, and even within his own family, said his forgotten middle name, and it was odd to hear it from a stranger’s mouth.

The way she said the first syllable made it sound like a soft, shushing whisper, as if it were a secret she was sharing with him. She rounded it out with the a play of her tongue and her ungenerous mouth on the last syllable, so that it sounded full, closed – as if sealing the name within herself.

“Much better.”

She produced a pack of menthol cigarettes from her purse and a lighter. She put a fag between her lips and raised the lighter. “… So, Sherlock. Cigarette?”

He ignored her offer and moved closer to the balcony, casually leaning on it with his elbows resting on the ledge. He met her eye with a question of his own.

“Is your name really Izzie?”  


She paused in the act of lighting her cigarette and looked up at him. Then she laughed, the sound slightly muffled by her fag. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t look like an Izzie to me.”  


She removed her cigarette from between her lips and threw her head back with a proper laugh, the sound of her amusement crisp and effusive in the warm night air. “No? I don’t suppose I do. Tell me,  _Sherlock_. What do I look like to you?”

Her question stopped him, because for the first time, he didn’t have a ready answer.

He couldn’t tell her what she looked like because he couldn’t  _see_  anything. Most people, like Sebastian Wilkes or that Greek boy or her art student companion, were easy to read. So easy that they might as well put up signs broadcasting details about themselves.

With a single glance, he could tell what breed of dog or cat their pet was, what they’d had for breakfast, when and where they’d last slept and with whom, which man was embezzling funds from his company, which trophy wife was slowly poisoning her husband with drugs carefully concealed in his morning coffee – every last detail revealed to his observant eye.

With her, however, he couldn’t see anything.

He recalled the information about her that he had gleaned from Sebastian – her father, her mother, the genteel poverty she was raised in, the nomadic lifestyle they led – none of which he had been able to deduce from her.  _He_  hadn’t  _seen_  it from her.

It frustrated him and made him resentful, because it felt like cheating. As if he had been handed the answers to a test. The facts aligned and made sense when applied to the picture of her, but  _he_  hadn’t been the one to provide the answers. 

His own prowess, exceptional as it was when applied to other people, had been inadequate to deduce this information from what little interaction he’d had with her, and he had to resort to  _cheating_  without even knowing it.

That alone was enough to set her apart and to make him bitter, but the fact that he’d gotten his information on her from the unpalatable Sebastian Wilkes further added to his humiliation and resentment.

“Well?” The Girl crossed her arms over her chest, letting the cigarette dangle from her fingers as she exhaled. A long plume of acrid smoke whispered lazily across his cheek and he glared at her.  


He wasn’t going to answer her. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

She inhaled from her cigarette again and moved away from the column she’d been leaning on so that she was standing quite close beside him. Given the way he’d been leaning forward on the balcony ledge, this put her at eye level with him. He stared ahead, trying not to look at her face.  

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She exhaled again, this time blowing the cloud of smoke behind his ear and down the back of his neck. It made him shiver, and he didn’t know why.

“A mystery.” The admission was reluctant, and he knew immediately that he shouldn’t have answered her when he turned his head and saw the triumphant gleam in her eye. “You look like a mystery.”  


Her smile grew, and she looked him up and down in approval. “Good answer.”

“You didn’t answer my question either.” He reached out and took the cigarette from between her fingers. Without breaking eye contact, he brought the cigarette to his own lips and inhaled deeply.  


“Is your name really Izzie?”

“No.” she grinned, teeth flashing, but instead of answering, she pushed away from the balcony and, laughing, made her way to the French doors, still in her white sundress.

Just before she opened the doors to join the party – without having changed, as the Madame had ordered – she half-turned back to him, that mischievous smile still on her face. 

“I’m Irene.”

…

…

…

Sherlock slept fitfully that night. Because even in a somnolent state, his mind had perfect recall.

He had control over it when he was awake and conscious, aware enough so that he could manipulate the direction of its thoughts and impose order upon it.

His subconscious mind, however, had no filter or sense of logical organization. He found himself, drifting in and out of sleep, an unrestrained cavalcade of images and remembered sensory stimuli flipping rapidly behind his closed eyelids.

_Hands fisting on worn sheets, knuckles white with tension._

_The rising staccato of gasping breaths and wordless moans._

_A long column of cigarette smoke trailing down his neck, mingling with the warmth of her breath and accompanied by an amused laugh._

_Legs shifting restlessly, trembling with minute involuntary contractions. Hips undulating, sweetly demanding, under a devoted tongue._

_Blue eyes fluttering open as she rode out her climax, their clear, sharp gaze focused on him._

_The sound of his name rolling from her sharp tongue, followed by her breathless moan as she came._

_“Sherlock.”_

His own eyes jolted open as he awoke, breathing heavily.  


The clock on the bedside table read 3:00 AM. The night air was warmer than usual tonight, and what little breeze made its way through his bedroom window did nothing to cool him.

His shirt was soaked through with sweat and he sat up on the edge of the bed, peeling it off himself. He braced his hands on the mattress, struggling to get his breathing back under control.

It was just a dream.

Just… Just his mind trying to make sense of the events of the day, trying to reorganize it in a way that his subconscious would accept.

So why were those same images still flickering in the edges of his vision even in his awoken state? Why was his breathing rate still elevated, and his pulse still racing?

And he refused to think about the other… physiological responses he’d had to the dream. But  _Christ_ , he was as hard as he had been in that alley.

He balled up his damp shirt and threw it across the room in disgust. He was better than this.

Yes, he’d experienced physical arousal before, though probably not as often as other boys his age – idiots like Wilkes whose primary motivation was sex and satisfying their libido – and unlike them, he was clever enough to realize that this was merely the human body’s responses to stimuli.

He, Sherlock, was a creature of logic. The perfect thinking machine. He’d never been a slave to his urges.

This time should be no different.

And yet, he could still hear her voice inside his head, murmuring his name as she had on the veranda this evening.  _“Sherlock.”_ And his traitorous memory persisted on coupling it with the sounds of her pleasure from this afternoon – as if those two could belong together in the same breath from the same mouth.

_They could._

The idea slipped in through the cracks of his mind, cunningly and insidiously, planting its seed.

Stimuli and response.

If  _he_  had been there, in that room with her, instead of her art student companion, would his name spill from her lips in the same breath as those wordless moans that accompanied her orgasm?

He shook his head vigorously and stood up from the bed, almost stumbling on the bedside table in his haste to get to the bathroom. He flipped the light switch on, let the water run, and splashed some water onto his face. Once. Twice.

The water felt cool against his heated skin, and he ran a hand down his face to wipe the remaining droplets away. As he did, he looked up and saw himself in the mirror.

Was that really him right now?

His hair was messed up, curls damp from water and perspiration. Droplets of water were sliding down his face, over his parted lips as he struggled to catch his breath. His pupils were blown wide, almost obscuring the irises, and he could see something… dark and  _burning_  in them. Something that had never been there before.

He closed his eyes to avoid his reflection, but that wasn’t any better, because the memories that had haunted his dreams were back, and this time, the idea that had been planted in his mind were intruding into these images.  


Behind his closed eyelids, he could see the tight arch of her back as she strained toward orgasm, and he wondered what it would be like to follow that delicious curve with his own hands. To feel her muscles contracting, her spine curving under his palm.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He leaned forward and his forehead thumped against the mirror. His heart was pounding and his entire body felt as taut as a violin string. He could feel his erection throb against his thigh, and he screwed his eyes shut, as if it could somehow stop the onslaught of images in his head.

The quivering soft skin of her inner thigh that seemed to tremble only with the right touch from her lover’s hand. As if this response could only be coaxed by a certain pattern of stimuli. Like a puzzle box that could only be unlocked by the right code. If she were touched a certain way.

His mind replaced her lover’s hand with his. What if  _he_  were to touch her a certain way…? Would he receive the same response?

He groaned at the thought, the sound shockingly loud in the silent bathroom. His hand flexed, as if it were already touching her, feeling her tremble under him. But devoid of  _her_ , he made do and roughly jerked his boxers aside, wrapping his hand around himself.

The tension built in his stomach and at the base of his spine, and it was almost a relief as he began to stroke. He could feel his own hot breath in the space between him and the mirror.

He’d never… done this sort of thing before, and it took a few tries to find a rhythm. But his mind eagerly spurred him on, feeding the throbbing, escalating tension with more embellished memories, in which his fingers replaced that of her companion’s and traced the long line of her leg so that he could feel the texture of her skin. What would it feel like under his fingers?

In his mind’s eye, he saw her chest rise and fall in time with her gasping moans, the skin between her breasts glistening with sweat and her lover’s tongue, and he wondered how her skin would taste.

He stroked faster, hips jerking forward involuntarily. His left hip bumped the porcelain sink, but he barely noticed. He could feel the tension gathering, mounting, as if building up to something.

_“Sherlock.”_   


He heard The Girl’s voice again, echoing in his head, saying his name, each syllable rolling off her tongue like a decadent secret that only they shared. He choked out a groan and his grip tightened, the pressure building and building… It was too much.. too intense…

He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, and instead of his own eyes reflected in the mirror, he saw hers – pupils dilated in her climax, almost consuming the translucent color of her irises, staring straight back at him with unabashed challenge.

The tension snapped, and he came with her eyes on him, spilling into his palm and the sink with a hoarse groan. The intensity of the sensation was indescribable, and for several moments, his mind went completely and utterly blank.   


He could not have measured out how long he remained in this suspended state, but eventually, he felt the euphoria wane, to be replaced by a growing sense of weakness as the tension drained out of his muscles. His heart rate began to slow, and after a few stutters, his breathing began to return to normal.

As conscious thought began to intrude once more, he looked down at his palm and felt an unpleasant sensation swooping his stomach – a nebulous mixture of embarrassment, guilt, shame and disappointment. It made him uncomfortable, and he quickly jerked his boxers back in place and ran his hand under the stream of water from the sink.

He’d always thought he was better than this. He’d never… this… This was the kind of thing that other boys his age did. He, Sherlock, had always been above such things, and he’d held himself to a higher standard.

What the hell was wrong with him?

It didn’t take a genius to answer that question : Her. The Girl. Irene.

She was the only factor that had changed. Before her, he’d never felt the urge – the  _need_  – to satiate any sexual urges he might have had. He’d never actually met anyone who provoked such a strong reaction. Probably because no one he’d met was quite so interesting enough to provide such stimulation.

On the more logical side of things, he supposed it made sense.

Sexual arousal was a natural physiological function. And based on textbooks and his own observation of his peers, it usually spiked in people his age. And the Girl… she stood out. In the muddled mess of dull-eyed teenagers surrounding him, she was  _interesting_. 

Perhaps it was the boredom and the tedium of this place. Perhaps he just had a higher threshold than most.

But it didn’t matter, he thought, as he dried his hands on a towel and switched off the bathroom light. He’d gotten it out of his system now. Without intrusive thoughts of her, he could return to his books and his experiments and restore order to his temporarily-addled mind.

With that last thought, he shuffled back to into the room and let himself collapse face-down on the bed. Within seconds, he was asleep.

This time, he didn’t have any dreams.

  


* * *

  


Madame de Glace:

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update, but as I mentioned before, I upload one chapter ahead in Tumblr, and I wasn't satisfied with my earlier drafts of chapter 4, and I didn't want to update just for the sake of updating.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this is okay. Please tell me what y'all think, Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> So... drawing inspiration from the Chanel short film "Tale of a Fairy" by Karl Lagerfeld, the film "A Good Year" by Ridley Scott, and "The Virgin Suicides" (both the book, and the film by Sofia Coppola). Also the novel "Middlesex" by Jeffrey Eugenides. God, I love his stuff.
> 
> This is a pretty vague AU for me, and I'm pretty much making this up as I go, so bear with me please. And as always, thoughts and comments are very much appreciated. I thrive on constructive criticism :)


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